


All I Have Is Yours

by inkedpenn



Series: Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky [3]
Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), George Harrison (Musician), The Beatles (Band), The Travelling Wilburys (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedpenn/pseuds/inkedpenn
Summary: Bob is nervous and uncomfortable, and George wants to know why.So he does the only thing he can- writes a song.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "I'd Have You Anytime" is a. Good Song  
> Anyway, here's another piece for my "Even the Birds Are Chained to the Sky" series! I will probably add more chapters (???) but who knows. Enjoy!

Bob has been staring into his coffee for about an hour now, silence pressing heavy into the air, pressure building. At least he looks healthier, George thinks, glancing over the man in front of him. His face looks less gaunt now, no longer seems like he's about to fall apart. Well, mostly anyway, because there's still an aura of unease that surrounds him like a dark halo, and maybe that's the source of the growing tension in the room. He won't quite meet George's eyes and his foot is tapping relentlessly against the floor, though now it seems more like nerves than the work of chemicals in his veins.

George can't figure out why Bob would be nervous, though. He doesn't understand, and it hurts even if he won't admit it. Like rejection. Doesn't know how to deal with that, because he's not willing to let Bob go like this, so he does the one thing he knows how to do and gets his guitar. Bob perks up a little at this, more comfortable in the familiarity of music. Still not speaking, him and George mess around for a while, plucking out random tunes.

Then George pulls out a small notebook from his jacket pocket and starts writing.

"Let me in here

I know I've been here

Let me into your heart."

He passes the book to Bob, who's been attempting to conceal his interest. He looks back at George, questioning, not enough information to reach a conclusion yet. He hands the paper back. George begins to scribble again.

"Let me know you

Let me show you

Let me roll it to you."

This time, while Bob's eyes trace the words, there's a flash of something, realization maybe. He gets up, but before George can even say anything he's back with a pen in hand.

"All I have is yours

All you see is mine

And I'm glad to hold you in my arms,

I'd have you anytime."

Bob stares intently at the other man, foot still tap-tap-tapping. Though it only takes a few seconds for George to read it, it feels like days to Bob, filled with anticipation.

"Talk to me, Bob," George says, somewhere in between pleading and demanding, though he'd never force Bob into anything. There's a shyness in his features now, something unsure in the lines of his face.

"'Bout what?"

George feels like they're going in circles. Hopes that it's not a spiral instead.

"Anything you want."

Bob hums quietly to himself and thinks for a moment. Remembers what he'd written, and tries to force something out. Then he looks back into his coffee, only he realizes that it's empty now and that's as good an excuse as any.

"You want more coffee?"

Disappointment. Bob swallows, trying to ignore that look that George is giving him.

"No thank you."

Despite his best efforts to prolong it, the coffee is only a minor detour to their conversation, if it could be called that. George is still waiting for a proper reply, even as the time ticks slowly by. Bob sips at his coffee.

"Tell me about the accident."

That makes Bob look up again, and now George is the one having trouble interpreting his rapidly shifting expressions. Shock, and hurt, and fear all cross his features before settling on something close to shame.

"I don't- um. I don't want to talk about it," he says, though it comes out quiet and strained. George just keeps looking at him, refusing the excuse.

"Please, George," he whispers, and his eyes shift down so that George can no longer see the cool blue through his eyelashes. The tap-tap-tapping of his foot begins to sound like machine guns firing.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to Bob, but... I'd like to hear what happened."

Bob struggles for a moment, trying to piece everything together for George. Then he speaks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George talks to Bob, and maybe, for the first time, Bob will let himself listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm back! This time with a longer chapter, which personally I like a lot better and I hope you do too. I'm not sure whether I'll continue this fic or not, but either way I think I'm also going to do one based on the Concert for Bangladesh. If y'all have any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear 'em!

"It was, um. I was coming back home, from Albert's house- my manager," he explains quickly. "I- well, I guess I must have just took a turn too sharp, but I don't remember it all that good to be honest, it happened real fast and I messed my head up pretty bad and now it's been a while since it happened and it's fine now, George. I'm fine."

He knows that his rapid-fire speech adds no credibility to the already flimsy words. Not that he's lying, exactly, just- censoring, except for maybe when he said that he's fine, because that part he made up wholesale. Doesn't know what exactly his current state is, but it sure as hell isn't anywhere near fine. No, he thinks, it's much closer to falling apart, or being burned alive. Like his mind is a prison now.

It's frustrating, above all. He finally got what he wanted - a fucking break - but it hasn't eased his frayed nerves any. At least back before the accident, he knew what he was doing, what he wanted- now he just feels lost, stranded. And even now, he still feels trapped, though now it's worse because there's no one else he can blame.He gets the feeling that he constructed a cage for himself while he was distracted trying to build a coffin.

He wants to tell George, he really does. If anyone else could understand the pressure, it would be him; but more importantly, he considers George a friend, knows that he would only want to help and that he should let him. But despite his intentions, he's never able to get to that last step of letting George in. It's too much, and George is too damn good for anyone, but especially for him. Perhaps he's just afraid of George rejecting him, doesn't want to risk that pain, even if he would never admit to it. But regardless, he never just get the words out, and it's an endless spiral because his silence just traps him further within himself.

He's panicking a little bit now, as George sits across from him and mentally picks apart Bob's story. Feels like he said too much, or not enough, and either way he's pretty sure he's fucked everything up. Doesn't know how, exactly, just knows to brace himself for a storm.

Starts to get choked up, doesn't want to know what George is thinking but the silence is even worse. Tears well up in his eyes and he just feels pathetic, above all, his breathing becoming uneven and sharp.

 _Don't you dare fucking cry_ , he thinks, though a smaller part of him suspects that it's inevitable and that just makes the panic worse. There's a dull ringing in his ears, and it's quite distracting really, or at least it must be because he sees George's lips move but he doesn't hear anything.

He doesn't even notice that he's shut his eyes, until he's snapping them open again as he feels George's hands come to rest gently on his shoulders. His heart is pounding in his chest, so hard and George must be able to hear it because it's the only thing that Bob can hear right now, until George is whispering softly to him.

"Hey, hey, relax..." His thumbs trace small circles into Bob's shoulders. The tears finally spill over, and he's pressing his face into his hands because he just- he just can't. It's too much. He sort of curls up into himself, like he's trying to escape somehow. Or trying to be a smaller target; but Bob's got enough on his mind without dealing with that thought, and George refuses to consider the implications of that so he ends up ignoring it entirely.

Bob is spiraling, desperately attempting to calm down but the fact that he can't just makes it even worse. His throat is tight with shame, tears rolling down his cheeks like they're burning. Feels like he can't breathe, like the air is fire, or maybe like he's drowning. Or maybe he's drowning in fire. Thoughts are a scrambled mess, he can't fucking think-

George pulls him closer, hugging the smaller man loosely, not wanting to make him feel trapped. Bob whimpers, and curls up into himself a little more, but he's also leaning into George's touch so he takes that as a sign that it's fine to stay like this.

"Shh, it's alright, Bobby. It's gonna be alright. Just breathe for me, okay?" He nods a little bit, though he's shaking so bad now that George can hardly tell. Bob shifts forward, pressing himself into George. The arms around his shoulders wrap more tightly across his back, long fingers tracing soothing patterns onto his skin. He tries to take a deep breath. Tries to just breathe, because that's about as basic as it gets, but he can't even get that much right. His lungs ache, like they're heavy with shame. He wants to scream, or to run, or do just about anything but he can't so he just trembles pathetically in George's arms.

"It wasn't- it wasn't an accident, I mean I didn't know it was gonna- I- I didn't know it was gonna happen like that, it just sorta happened, and I just-" he cuts himself off with a sharp sob.

"Bob, slow down, alright? It's gonna be okay. Just slow down."

He sucks in a deep breath, and it goes down a little easier this time.

George gets his fingers under Bob's chin, lifting it up so he can look into Bob's eyes.

"Can I get you some water, Bob?" He nods vigorously. It doesn't take more than a minute before George is back at his side, pressing a glass into his hands.

"Thanks," he mumbles. Takes a few sips, but then he can't help himself from shifting closer to George again. George is warm, and steady, and he's everything that Bob needs right now.

"I was- there were more shows, that Albert had lined up and I just- I couldn't, George.It was, um, it was too much." He's making a concentrated effort to take it slower this time, to just talk to George and not flip out again. He still can't meet George's eyes.

George raises a hand to gently caress Bob's cheek, wiping away stray tears which are still falling. Doesn't want to say anything until he's sure that Bob's finished.

"I didn't... it wasn't like I was tryin' or anything. Just, um," he takes another slow sip of water, "It was just- everything all at once, you know?" Bob finally lifts up his eyes to look into George's.

George nods.

"Um. Didn't try to stop it though," he goes quiet again, looking away. "I know it's- I, um-" He takes a deep breath. Relax. "I'm- 'm sorry."

Then George is forcing him to make eye contact again, he wants to pull away but forces himself to stay still. His eyes are so deep, like looking into the night sky, or an ocean. Once he looks he can't pull away, and he thinks that George must have some special type of gravity about him because that's the only reason he can think of for why he's always so drawn to the younger man. No one else does that to him, he's like the tide, helpless to George's pull. But he finds that maybe he doesn't mind it that much at all, because somehow George has managed to calm him down, has dragged him away from that familiar cliff that he always finds himself on. Talked him down, as it were, even though he didn't really need to say anything; just gave him that look, and it was over from there.

"You don't need to be sorry, Bob. You've nothing to be sorry for."

As much as Bob trusts him, he finds that hard to believe, because really what doesn't he have to be sorry for? Feels like a coward, a liar, a thief. God, he feels like fucking Judas, and he sort of wishes he'd never done that stupid concert because he'll never get that little voice out of his head.

George knows that Bob doesn't believe him, even if he doesn't say anything, even if he doesn't move at all. He knows Bob, knows well enough to see the doubt etched into the little wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. 

"Bob, look at me. C'mere," he says, tugging the smaller man almost into his lap. "'s not your fault. Please, don't blame yourself." There's such an open honesty in his eyes, and Bob wants nothing more than to just believe him. But it's just too good, too good to be true, and really how can it not be his fault? He doesn't even need to say it out loud, just looks down at his hands and it breaks George's heart.

He realizes that words are never going to convince the other man. So instead, he opts to take Bob's hands in his own. He doesn't know exactly what he wants to express, but Bob's looking at him again and for once there's no wall behind his eyes, so he thinks that maybe he's finally got through.

"Bob. I don't- look, I'm not the best with words. But I need you to listen to me. I don't know where the world would be, where-" he pauses for a minute to catch his own breath, "I don't know where I would be, without you. You make me feel like someone else knows what I'm going through, you make me feel like I can make it in this world. No one else makes me feel the way you do. No one, Bob. You make the world a better place, not because of anything that you do but just because you exist. I just- I wish you could see yourself how I see you, because when I look at you, I see all the light in the world. I just want you to see that light too."

"George-"

"No, listen to me. I know people are- people are cruel. But that has nothing to do with you. Nothing. And it's- it's not your fault. Do you hear me, Bob? Not. Your. Fault."

He's looking into his eyes, and it's more than words that George is saying to him. More than anything that either of them could express. It's everything, all at once, but for the first time it doesn't overwhelm him. For the first time, he lets himself believe.

For the first time, he lets himself trust.


End file.
